Flipside
by hiding duh
Summary: Gabriel/Claire/Peter. Huh. They never talk about Christmas of 1995. Probably because it never happened.


Scribbled between failed Onyxia raids in an attempt to avoid setting fire to my guild.

**Title**: Flipside  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: platonic Gabriel/Claire/Peter  
**Summary**: Huh. They never talk about Christmas of 1995. (Probably because it never happened.)  
**Rating**: G  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x12  
**Word Count**: 2,200  
**Notes**: For **sylaire_chal**'s challenge #6: Christmas. I've decided to blame everything on Arthur. I'm sorry, Arthur.

* * *

In the many alternate universes running relatively parallel to each other, there existed one that branched off early in Arthur's childhood. Perhaps his father had taken him hunting once, instilling in him a sense of responsibility, or maybe his mother had lived long enough to soak Arthur's heart with love.

Whatever the reason had been, when Angela made... a tiny mistake with Linderman, Arthur—like all good men—forgave her. He never sent the boy away, never persuaded his wife her son wouldn't belong, never kept Gabriel a secret.

In that universe, _Nathan's_ tiny mistake became a precious granddaughter, curling up at Arthur's side and tattling on her unruly uncles.

"What have they done now, Claire?" Arthur asked sternly, glasses slipping down his nose.

She burrowed into his side with a pout, her little nose poking his ribs. "Broke the tree."

With a resigned sigh, Arthur put away his favorite book, sat up in his recliner, then unceremoniously hoisted Claire atop his shoulders and headed for the dimmed hallway.

"Of course they broke the tree. Again," he remarked blandly, raising a bemused eyebrow as Claire's chubby fingers tangled in his hair, her ribbons and curls tickling the back of his neck.

With a spoiled little mumble, she leaned her chin on his head, pleading, "Don't tell them I told you, okay."

"Told you what?" Gabriel asked, rounding the corner and looking especially innocent.

Claire's little hands twisted anxiously in Arthur's hair. "Nothing. I didn't. And you can't prove it."

Gabriel paused, frowning, then casually told Arthur, "Peter did it."

Fidgeting, Claire shook her head, tugging on Arthur's ears, but remained peculiarly quiet.

In turn, Arthur strolled past Gabriel into the foyer, calmly lowering Claire to the ground and calling, "Peter."

Peter poked his head behind a charred pine branch, wringing out a wet towel. "It's... not what it looks like, Dad."

Patient, Arthur cocked his head. "It looks like you burned the tree to the ground, Peter."

Peter found a particularly interesting spot on his ash-covered socks. "Okay, yeah, it's what it looks like."

Gabriel took a few steps forward, showing no trace of guilt, standing tall next to Arthur. "How disappointing, Peter."

Peter opened his mouth to argue, then summarily gave up. "Fine. What's my punishment?"

Claire wrapped her hands around Arthur's knee and looked up, eyes sparkling.

"Claire has an idea," Arthur translated nonchalantly.

And as he withdrew to the library, placing a few inconveniently repetitive calls, Peter and Gabriel exchanged glances, Claire sandwiched between them and beaming up with an expectant grin.

"I _covered_ for you," Peter accused as soon as the heavy library door closed behind Arthur, ignoring Claire's outstretched arms.

Gabriel gave a small shrug, flicking a speck of dust off his gray cardigan, then inspected the base of the tree, where a string of lights was still crackling dangerously. "Is it my fault I can't control this thing?"

Peter paused, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "_Yes_?"

"Can't control what?" asked Claire eagerly, still waiting to be noticed.

Peter waved her off, focusing on Gabriel. "I _told_ you to tell Ma."

Gabriel frowned at Peter. "And tell her what? That—" he glanced guardedly at Claire, then raised an eyebrow in warning, "—M-e-r-e-d-i-t-h secretly dropped by for a visit last week and suddenly both of us are p-y-r-o-m-a-n-i-a-c-s?"

Peter gave a frustrated grunt. "I don't know, okay?" he gestured wildly, swinging his arm in a wide arc and narrowly missing Claire's head. "I mean... come on, this isn't something we should hide!" His eyes darted to Claire. "Besides, don't you think Ma and _Nate_ should know M-e-r-e-d-i-t-h is back and is apparently some sort of m-u-t-a-n-t f-r-e-a-k?"

Annoyed, Claire tugged on their pantlegs, head tilted with a glare. "What's a mutant?"

Both Peter and Gabriel froze.

"Who taught her how to spell?" demanded Gabriel, eyebrows drawing together ominously.

"Claire," began Peter amiably, fixing her with a gentle smile and patting her head. "Can you go play by yourself for a bit?"

Claire heaved a deep, suffering sigh and toddled off in directions unknown, the hem of her ruffled little dress catching on burnt branches and crackling wires.

"Look," Peter told Gabriel urgently, his voice a harsh whisper, "what if Meredith doesn't even know she has this... power? Or what if she gave it to us on purpose? I mean, what if we can't get rid of it?"

Gabriel observed his palms, lips pursed. "Well. I like it."

Peter took a moment to contemplate, then reluctantly agreed. "Yeah, me, too."

Features softening, Gabriel smiled. "It makes us _special_, Peter."

Peter grimaced. "Yeah, well, I still think Ma should know."

Gabriel glanced around, scanning the foyer. "Peter, you know she'll tell Dad..." With a sudden scowl, he spun on his heel, striding over to the far corner of the room, where jagged pieces of broken ornaments were glistening.

With blood.

"Claire."

Startled, Peter turned, eyes darting about. "Where did she—how did—"

Wordlessly, Gabriel took a few quick strides, crossing the room in seconds, following the trail of blood.

"Claire!" Peter repeated, voice rising in urgency.

"I told you to clean that up before someone got hurt," Gabriel ground out darkly, pushing Peter out of the way.

Anxious, Peter shoved past him, bending to check under the table, growing more concerned with every ticking second. "You're the one that blew up the damn tree!"

Gabriel said nothing, shoulders tensing as the sole of his foot caught on a substantial puddle of blood.

Peter winced, freezing at the base of the spiral staircase.

Slowly, Gabriel knelt, fingers wrapping around the banister for balance. "Claire."

She looked at him with a pout, sitting on the carpeted stairs, blood steadily trickling from her calf and seeping into the white carpet, spreading like ink. "Took you too long to find me. I counted to fi... sevent... a lot."

Warily, Peter knelt by Gabriel's side, eyeing the large glass shard sticking from her skin. "We weren't playing hide-and-seek, Claire," he said softly, trying to distract her as Gabriel's fingers pressed against her leg and tugged.

She scrunched up her face as though reprimanding him. "We shoulda been, Peter."

Expressionless, Gabriel leveled his gaze with hers and quickly pulled out the glass.

Terrified, Peter jumped to his feet. "I'll go find something to stop the bleeding!"

"No need," Gabriel drawled, eyes trained on Claire's skin, which was hastily repairing itself beneath his gaze.

Claire followed his line of vision, curious. "That hurt."

Interest piqued, Gabriel ran his fingers across the fading scar.

"Claire," he told her, almost reverently, "does anyone else know about this?"

Surprisingly, she seemed to understand. "Only Mr. Cuddles." She considered for a moment. "But he won't tell."

Peter scrunched up his face. "Your teddy bear?"

The corner of Gabriel's lips twitched. "Then this will be our special secret, Claire."

Claire scrutinized him for a bit, slapping her little palm to Gabriel's forehead. "You have to show me your secret, too."

Peter's eyes widened. "What?"

But Gabriel grinned wickedly, prying her hand off and placing it in his palm. "Watch carefully, Claire."

Dismayed, Peter watched as a flicker burst into a strong flame around Claire's wrist, and instinctively reached out to smack her hand away. "No, wait, what are you—" The fire licked at his fingers, and he quickly drew back, cradling his hand to his chest.

Both Claire and Gabriel turned to stare at him with identical expressions.

"Interesting," Gabriel mused, the fire in his palm extinguishing with a puff.

"Oh," Claire echoed. "You're like me."

Panting slightly, Peter shakily sat on the floor by Claire's feet. "What's going on?" He flinched, watching the burnt flesh around his knuckles mend itself. "Is it... is it because it's Christmas?" he asked experimentally, eyes shining.

Gabriel stared at him for a long moment.

"You're too old to believe in Santa, Peter," he deadpanned, rose, and held out a hand for Claire. "Besides, I doubt pyromania and invulnerability were on your list."

Peter rolled his eyes and stood up, unsteady on his feet. "Well, I did always kind of want to fly..."

Gabriel smirked, picking Claire up and settling her against his hip. "We should clean up." He glanced at Claire's socks, now stained with blood. "What do you say, princess? Should we let Peter do it?"

Peter's brows drew together. "What, alone? But—"

"Majority rules, Peter," Gabriel concluded, throwing a cursory glance at the front door, looming menacingly behind the annihilated Christmas tree. "We have visitors anyway."

The doorbell rang as if on cue.

"Delivery for Mr. Petrelli?" one of the men asked, stomping to rid his boots of snow, breath misting in front of his red face. "One Christmas tree—" his eyes widened as he peeked inside. "Whoa, what happened here? The turkey catch fire or somethin'?"

Gabriel exchanged a look with Claire, gesturing at the foyer and tossing a mop to Peter. "Or something."

Uneasy, the men silently lugged the tree inside, sprinkling pine needles everywhere.

Peter glanced up from faux-mopping occasionally, and waited until the tree was propped up and the men were gone to impatiently fling the mop away and sidle up to Gabriel and Claire. "We have to talk about this!"

Claire twisted around in Gabriel's arms to hand Peter a surviving ornament, her socks slipping off her dangling feet.

"She wants you to shut up," Gabriel explained.

Begrudgingly, Peter accepted the ornament. "You can't pretend that—"

"Peter," Gabriel interrupted, reaching up to hang a cracked candy cane. "Stop b-i-t-c-h-i-n-g."

Claire raised curious eyebrows, hand frozen in midair.

"She can spell," Peter reminded, biting back a grin.

"I know."

Amused, Peter shook his head. "Okay, fine. But I'm still telling Ma."

"Telling me what?" asked Angela, walking through the front door, heavy mink coat peppered with snowflakes.

"Why the hell do I smell barbecue?" Nathan complained behind her, gloved fingers pulling the door closed. He stepped into the foyer, shaking snow off his shoulders, then promptly froze. "_Pete_."

"Why is it always me?" Peter sighed.

Unsurprisingly, Claire appeared the picture of innocence as Gabriel lowered her to the ground so she could pad over to Nathan.

"Did you get me a pony?" she asked, curls brushing against her cheeks.

Nathan met her halfway with a lopsided smile. "Claire, Santa doesn't have room for a p—" His eyes widened at the sight of her bloodied clothes. His gaze hardened instantly, scanning the room for potential offenders. "What the hell happened to my daughter?"

Calm, Angela placed a hand to his chest. "Now, Nathan, no need to upset yourself over a bit of spilled _cranberry juice_." She turned knowing eyes to Peter and Gabriel.

Gabriel smiled indulgently, features dark. "...and faulty Christmas lights."

Peter remained quiet, inspecting his mother's face.

Nathan hesitated briefly, then scooped Claire up and hauled her toward the kitchen. "I've seen less carnage in Bosnia," he mumbled under his breath, seemingly willing to turn a blind eye to the scorched patches of fancy wallpaper and splatters of blood on the tiles and carpet.

"Claire," Gabriel called out lazily.

Claire poked her head over Nathan's shoulder. "Only Mr. Cuddles," she assured dutifully, locking her gaze with his.

Gabriel smiled.

For his part, Peter focused on taking out his frustration by strangling the new tree with a particularly blistered string of garland.

With a secretive smirk, Angela took off her coat, touched her fingers to Peter's cheek, then gracefully retreated to the library.

"Welcome back," Arthur greeted, reclining in his chair, a thick leather-bound book resting in his lap.

"The children are manifesting," she told him coolly, bending to brush her lips across his temple.

Expression unreadable, Arthur flipped a page. "That's nice, dear."

Angela's lips curled.

Feeling her eyes on him, Arthur closed his book and took off his glasses. "I know what you're thinking."

Angela placed a hand on the door, turning her head slightly. "And what is that, dear?"

Arthur met her eyes. "That it could have been different."

Content, Angela left the library, offering him a parting, "Yes. Much different."


End file.
